The Science of Deduction: A Study in John's Taste in Women
by Pyroclast17
Summary: John is renowned for his lack of tact and taste when it comes to women. Sherlock tends to only make it worse. Which in some ways is a good thing. Set after Sherlock's return. M for unpleasant cases, drugs, bad language, major character death, but T if it were only for the Johnlock. Just being cautious, but you have been warned.
1. Underground

The Science of Deduction A Study in John's Taste in Women

"JOHN. Hurry up! We need to get to Trafalgar Square within half an hour and you're busy _blogging_, for God's sake, you'll make us _miss our chance!_"

John shut down his laptop and shrugged on his coat, half-laughing at his flatmate's impatience.

"Sherlock, the cabbies are on strike. We're either taking the bus or the underground, and we certainly won't get there in under thirty minutes."

The detective intensified his livid expression and pulled his friend out of the apartment, stopping only when John managed to fight his sleeve free of his grip, and march along on his own in a most military fashion. The first "screw you Sherlock, I can do things on my own" of the day.

These little displays of independence had become routine ever since Sherlock had randomly arrived home after being dead for three years. Needless to say, John hadn't been the happiest of campers at the idea that his best friend had abandoned him, causing him to spiral into a vortex of emotional turmoil, only for him to turn up out of the blue and announce his apparent state of being alive after all.

They were on the underground. Sherlock glanced around at the other people invading his personal space with an almost-hidden distaste. Some schoolgirls (obviously mitching) tittered with a volume that competed with the detective's uncomfortable, irritable aura. They flew speedy looks in his direction, which were _almost_ ignored…

"Hey." He had directed this at the loudest of the hive, a girl no more than sixteen, with the most outrageous, untidy pile of frizz for a hairstyle.

John froze. _Oh dear God what is he doing._

"I know your father. He told me to tell you that he's leaving, mainly due to the fact that his daughter is extremely problematic and his lover has far more pleasant children. Now please shut up."

John stared.

The _victim _stared.

Pretty much everybody on the carriage stared.

Then, out of the corning of his eye, the doctor noticed a woman shifting in her seat, and peer more closely (not really staring, in contrast to everybody else), at Sherlock, and smile slightly. Her gaze moved gradually over to John. He saw her breathing deeply before she moved and deposited herself in a free seat beside him.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! My God, this is amazing!"

She beamed enthusiastically at the pair. Sherlock's attention withdrew from the shocked eyes of those surrounding him and looked the new arrival up and down, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'm in the media business, you know. I know all about you. Not, I mean, all the rubbish that was printed about you when you, you know, topped yourself and whatnot, but… Um, anyway, I'm a big fan." Sherlock simply blinked at her. John on the other hand, beamed. "That's very kind, thank you. Not often we find somebody who still believes in Sherlock." Which was true of course, but the taller man began to notice that this conversation had gone on longer than any other fangirl's interview had with his friend before. It was usually an uneasy "thanks," followed by a quick departure. This made quite a difference. Which could only mean one thing.

The doctor straightened out his back and turned towards her more. "Hey, do you like coffee? Ever want to, I mean only if you want to, we could, perhaps meet up at some point and have… coffee." He wore his "curious" face quite openly, as if this wasn't a proposition for a date, no, not at all.

She eyed him more intensely, peacocking flirtatiously. "That depends," she began in a far smoother tone than she had started the conversation with, "On whether you know anywhere that does a good frappe we could share."

By this time the eerie silence caused by Sherlock's previous outburst had risen again to a healthy buzz, and it was only John and his new interest who heard him scoff.

John twisted around at the noise. "What."

Sherlock chuckled. "She doesn't work in the media." John confusedly scratched his eyebrow and replied with the usual, "Care to explain then?"

The detective leaned back comfortably and crossed his arms, ready to impress.

"She got onto the train with her earphones in, then took them out and went to switch off an ipod nano. Anybody working in any part of the media industry keeps their phone to hand above all else, not their mp3 player. Her phone, however, is at the bottom of her bag, as we can see through the rectangular bulge in the fabric of her shoulder rucksack, which is far too heavy and big to be a journalist's handbag. There are clearly some A4 books, more than likely textbooks and notebooks, in said bag, and no laptop. Any ordinary journalist would simply use a notepad to take notes, and type up the full article later. To add to all this, she has a prominent callus on the left side of her middle finger on her right hand, meaning she writes far more than an average journalist, probably essays. On a side note it also reveals that she's right-handed, but that's not important. The smell of alcohol on her clothes is also telltale of a rowdy night out with friends, not colleagues. She likes frappes, rather than proper coffee. In summary, college student. More than likely a first or second year, judging by her lack of concern for attending lectures by arriving in late with a stink of booze."

She gawked at him in disbelief. John looked her over, and drew his eyes back to her face. "But come on Sherlock, she doesn't look any younger than twenty-five, at least."

She got off at the next stop.


	2. Harpoon and Indian

The Science of Deduction- A Study in John's Taste in Women

"John, where did you put my harpoon?"

He stood in the doorway in the baggiest clothes John had ever seen him wear- apart from a bedsheet.

"Going fishing, then?"

"Pfft." Sherlock strode over to his chair and sat opposite his friend, who looked quite at peace with his teacup and newspaper, and didn't look like he needed to get up to do anything, thank you very much. "I'm going down into the sewers. Can't bring a gun down there, as I'm sure you're aware."

John folded the paper and reached for another bite of toast. "And what about the sword you had under your bed? Isn't that a little less conspicuous?"

Sherlock seemed to twitch ever so slightly. "How do you know about that?"

John set down the newspaper completely. "I made a record of your belongings about a month after you decided to piss off."

Sherlock threw his head back at this, and sprung out of his chair to avoid more poisonous stares. "Harpoon! Really, John, where is it?"

"I got rid of it."

"You _got rid of it_?"

"Yeah, I didn't want something like that in the flat. For crying out loud Sherlock, you hadn't even _cleaned it_."

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "Well now I have to buy a new one."

"You could just bring the sword."

"I'm not bringing the sword. And it's a scimitar, anyway. Really John, get your facts right."

John rolled his eyes and drained his cup. He could see where Sherlock was going to go from here. And he honestly was not prepared for crowds of people after all the running they had done yesterday. '_Damn murderers,' _he thought, _'Why do they always run so fast?' _

"You're buying me a new harpoon."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. I'm saving my money." The taller man deflated. "You and your saving money. What's it for this time? Oh no wait, of course, you must have met up with another girl. Taking her out for a meal? Yes, of course you are."

Somehow, it came to pass that Sherlock tagged along to the dinner after tricking John into getting him a new harpoon. The sewers, he decided, could be seen to in the morning.

"I really would prefer if you would just leave us to ourselves this one night, Sherlock." The pair were facing the door of a quiet Indian restaurant as John fixed his shirt. The younger watched him thoughtfully.

"You aren't wearing a jumper."

"No. I want to look somewhat classy. Problem?"

"No."

"Good." John bunched both hands into fists in anticipation. "Ok. Ground rules. You don't make snide comments. You don't make rude observations. You know what, just don't talk at all." He made for the door handle and stopped, turning back again. "I also would prefer if you sat at a completely different table." He moved off, but did another double take. "And for God's sake Sherlock don't do the staring thing."

He tilted his head to the side and his eyebrows creased in thought. "What staring thing? I don't stare. I observe."

"That's the same thing with you."

Things began to look up from then on. John's date wasn't a complete idiot, as normal people went, Sherlock noticed. She actually understood John's bad jokes, puns that he made of a point of holding back on in Sherlock's presence. The blogger smiled goofily as this girl told him her life story (awfully tedious stuff in Sherlock's opinion) in between mouthfuls of fried rice and exotic sauced meats. All the while Sherlock gazed wistfully in their direction, barely touching his own food, his new harpoon lying dejected on the floor behind him.

After the main course, the woman excused herself and made for the bathrooms, leaving her handbag on her seat. Once she had closed the door to the short corridor at the back of the restaurant, Sherlock sidled over to their table and shamelessly began routing through her bag.

It had got to the point in their relationship where John knew telling Sherlock to stop would be a waste of time, so he didn't bother. He settled instead with rolling his eyes and stabbing a foreign-looking vegetable with his fork.

"Find anything interesting, then, you nosy git?"

He ignored John's verbal punch in the face.

"Of course I have. She left her phone." He whipped it out, turned it over in his hands, and got to work on finding the pass code. Easily done in ten seconds. Scroll, scroll, scroll. A slight raise of the eyebrows. Phone shoved back in the bag again.

"She's a lesbian."

John's mouthful of rice flew across the table like snowy bullets. "WHAT. Tina is not _gay_!"

Sherlock seemed quite unfazed by his blogger's explosion, and nodded slightly with that "really John it's quite obvious" face that annoyed him every time.

"I noticed when we first arrived that she wasn't wearing make-up, and yet her skin was very clear. She never wears it, then. Her clothes aren't in fashion, but they're not quite out either. In her bag, there was no sign of contraception, even though she's being brought to an expensive restaurant by somebody who is clearly very interested, and bordering on desperate. Not expecting to spend the night then. " John shot him a look that would traumatise small children. Ignored. "She has also smiled at the mention of any female acquaintance or yours, which in retrospect could be a display of pride at winning you over others, but judging by the frankly repulsive texts messages she's been sending to another woman by the name of Lucy, we can assume otherwise."

John placed his cutlery down beside his plate and took a deep breath. "Right. Sure." There was a long pause, during which he thought back over everything Sherlock had just said, processing it and finding that yes, all of that did make an irritating amount of sense. One thing, however, elicited a chuckle from the depths of his disappointment.

"So women have been "winning" me, eh?"

"That is what people say, isn't it?" He found nothing wrong with the use of the verb in this situation. John looked at his plate again.

"I suppose it is."

The door to the bathrooms swung open, causing John to kick Sherlock under the table in an attempt at moving him. The detective hissed aggressively as pain seared through his calf, but ever the spiteful one, he stayed routed to the spot, as if it was his right as supreme ruler of the restaurant to take this seat and defend it with his life.

John's date approached with caution. How had this terribly dressed pointy-faced man managed to replace her in the space of five minutes? Oh, and now he was extending a hand of greeting- Go on, take his hand then…

"Sherlock Holmes, you must be Tina! John's been telling me all about you."

"Oh… Has he?"

"Yes, quite," he folded his legs, quite at home, "And you know I'm sure I've heard about you before… Now who was it from? Oh it might have been Lucy, actually, yes! Well she was saying how her new girlfriend was pretty, but I was not expecting this!"

John nearly fainted with embarrassment. Tina shuffled awkwardly on the spot, her secret exposed.

"Should I leave?" The doctor was about to insist otherwise, but Sherlock suddenly stood and extended his hand once more. "It was wonderful to meet you, really."


	3. Daily Routine

**Hey guys, I hope you've been enjoying the fic so far. This chapter was a little late coming, and I'm sorry for that. The past couple of weeks have been rather hectic, and inspiration has only been coming to me at really bad times. However, I had time to plan out the rest of the story, so at least I know where we'll be going :D Looking at nine or ten chapters, k?**

**Unfortunately, the uploads for this fanfic are going to be somewhat sporadic. I'm back in school, and in my final year, which of course means the Leaving Cert exams. I'm afraid priorities are a thing. **

**Anyhoo, thanks for the good feedback y'all have been giving, do keep in touch. Pyro out.**

* * *

The Science of Deduction- A Study in John's Taste in Women

"John, I was doing you a kindness."

"Yes, Sherlock, because _that_ was _kind_."

John angrily jammed his key into the lock of 221B, making sure the sharp _chack_ reverberated and made his anger vividly clear to his flatmate. An acidic wave of tension crashed down on Sherlock's head as he followed John upstairs. The thumping of his harpoon was drowned out by the doctor's heavy footfalls, a sure sign that there would be no tea waiting for him in the morning.

And yet, there on the coffee table the next morning, Sherlock's favourite teacup sat, steaming serenely. He eyed it questioningly for a moment, but dismissed his curiosity and sat down to enjoy it as he always did. He reached for the newspaper and was about to start reading, when he noticed the date. From yesterday. Which meant John hadn't left the flat yet. How rare.

So where was he then? It wasn't like John to be in the flat and not hover around Sherlock. Sherlock was always orbited by John, which was quite understandable, the detective _was_ the centre of the Universe after all.

He went on the prowl.

Not in his own room.

Not in Sherlock's room.

Not having tea with Mrs. Hudson.

Not passed out in the kitchen.

Not hanging out the windows.

John exited the bathroom, clad in his usual dressing gown, to meet his flatmate fiddling at the lock with a hairpin.

"Picking the lock to the bathroom again."

"I couldn't find you, and this was the final option."

"You couldn't have, I dunno, knocked, no?"

"I thought you may have passed out."

John frowned until his eyebrows knitted into one. "Wuh…?"

"You haven't gone to buy the paper yet," he explained. "I thought you may have hurt yourself, as you haven't attended to your daily routine."

John pushed his way past Sherlock lightly, and made his way to the kitchen where his own tea awaited him. "I feel like taking it easy today, after last night." He glanced pointedly at the detective. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and paced quietly to the window closest to his chair. A strange silence fell between the two for a moment, not quite awkward, but not completely companionable either. The tension snapped with the blogger clearing his throat and straightening his back to ask a question that had been scratching at his mind since he lay down to sleep a few hours earlier.

"If Tina was a lesbian, Sherlock, why did she agree to date me? Free food?"

Sherlock tilted his head, still facing away from his friend. "More than likely a stunt to give the impression of being heterosexual. A mother pressurising her into finding a long-term partner, thinking she's straight, perhaps. Might as well go along with that to make her happy. I'm fairly well-versed in situations like that."

John paused and rewound. _Oh._

"So your mother, she doesn't know you're…" He trailed off, and Sherlock turned slightly, expecting a complete question. "What?"

"What?

"What are you asking?"

John drained his cup in embarrassment. "Never mind."

Thankfully, Sherlock's phone shuddered noisily on his desk. He walked lightly over to it and sped through the text. A sheer grin spread across his features.

"Lestrade is out of his depth again, it would seem. A mysterious house fire. Excellent stuff." His mobile was thrown unceremoniously onto the couch. "Get ready John, we've got a case."

He began to exit the room, but reversed when he heard John huff quietly. The doctor hadn't budged.

"Oh, you're not seriously still angry at him are you?"

John stayed resolute in his silence.

"Oh, _honestly._" Sherlock continued out the door.


	4. Nausea

**Ah right, so this took a while for me to start. Time is not a thing I have in abundance these days, and this chapter was fairly slap-dash. **

**Things happen here. Some not very nice things. Believe me, not every chapter will be like this. It's just come to those few chapters where everything's kind of dark and unpleasant. I hope you weren't expecting funny, awkward situations with girls for this entire fic, I doubt I would have been able to handle that amount of non-angst. **

**Anyway, please enjoy. **

* * *

The Science of Deduction- A Study in John's Taste in Women

It was coming on to midday before John was convinced to join Sherlock at the crime scene. The younger man stood waiting for him beside a now redundant fire engine, his collar turned up against the poisonous breeze. Behind him the charred skeletal remains of a city home spiked into the blue, black curls of smoke occasionally rising from pale piles of hot ash on the ground. John carefully avoided broken glass as he walked to his friend. He was met with a piercing stare. "Well that took _ages_."

John threw up his hands defensively. "I don't exactly want to be here, you know."

"It's not as if this is the first case we've taken from Lestrade since I got back. Even if it were, I wouldn't understand your reluctance to work with him."

John grew steadily more impatient. _That's been happening quite frequently over the past while, _Sherlock noted. The blogger's chest puffed up and his hands tinged scarlet from scrunching them into fists. "We've gone over it before, Sherlock, and I won't talk about it again. Especially not-" his pointed finger darted around the mass of destruction surrounding them, "here." Sherlock pursed his lips and shrugged his coat around himself before moving off to do his job. John followed, sucking his teeth.

It ended up being fairly simple, in the end. Simple and horrific.

A thirty-something year old man had lit a fire in the grate. He'd put too much fuel on. He didn't put on the central heating because the fire was hot enough. All seemed fairly innocent until he had gone to bed. In the middle of the night his daughter, who he had trapped in the basement and beaten within an inch of her life, managed to escape. The warmth of the fire drew her to it; it offered some level of comfort and light. But being only a child, she made the mistake of moving too close to it, becoming a torch, lighting the curtains, paintings, and everything within her reach on fire.

Sherlock had surgically picked through melted plastic and crumbled masonry when he had come across what appeared to be the girl's only friend- a rag doll, now seared and frayed into an unhappy bundle of embroidered fabric. The stench of urine down there had revealed all within a matter of minutes, and John had to leave before he was completely overcome with disgust towards the bastarding human race.

Outside, the sight of Lestrade meekly pacing in his direction was actually somewhat welcome. A familiar face, somebody who he knew wasn't really that bad, took away some of the nausea.

It took only seconds, however, before a new wave of illness passed over John's gut at the sight of the inspector's waxed grey hair and eyes that screamed "_Isn't it horrible? Will you be more willing to talk to me now that you're angry at somebody who deserves it?_" Horrifying memories of the events leading to Sherlock's fall still pierced John's conscience at the very mention of the name Greg, and here, after experiencing that _maddening _crime scene, the memories jabbed and tore with ten times the intensity that could be classed as normal.

He breathed deeply. Lestrade started to converse.

"This was a nasty one."

John remained uncharacteristically quiet. The inspector looked him up and down carefully. "Still not talking then." Silence. He frowned, and gazed back at the collapsed doorframe. "Sherlock's alive, John. He didn't commit suicide. What I did, it…" he paused, searching for something tactful to say, "It didn't make him do… what we thought he did." He shuffled, knowing that what he was putting across was pretty weak, and that this might not have been a good time at all. He watched as John's breathing became ragged- yes, very bad timing indeed.

" Could you ever bury a hatchet or am I just trying to catch smoke here?" It took a second for him to mentally slap himself for such terrible wording.

The doctor closed his eyes and fought a gladiator battle with his emotions. "It's not a hatchet." Lestrade frowned and turned defensive, a reaction Sherlock would have understood to mean that Greg hadn't grasped the meaning of what John had said. "Bloody hell, is Sherlock Holmes the only human in this universe you can actually forgive for screwing up? I'll remind you he does it regularly enough." He started towards the front door to hear Sherlock's news. "Maybe you could recognise that other people are more deserving of your forgiveness."

John was left standing in the road, forensics and police officers bypassing him without a second glance in his direction. He watched their movements for a while, hoping Sherlock would be done soon so that they could leave. He was eyeing the policeman guarding the tape when he spotted somebody outside a nearby house, huddled in a blanket. She shivered as though death had visited her in the night. John strode over to her.


	5. The Right Kind of Help

The Science of Deduction- A Study in John's Taste in Women

At first all he could make of her was that she was very unwell. Maybe it was the shuddering arms, the sickly-pale skin or the dark crevices under her eyes that alluded to this, but the doctor felt that the air about her had itself gone stale and dense. Or maybe that was just the barrage of feelings he had just experienced. Either way, he didn't like this situation at all.

He bent his head down slightly as he walked forwards, trying to catch her attention.

"Hello? Are you alright?"

Her gaze rose with uncertainty. Long strands of dark hair fell from her shoulders down in front, and when she blinked up at him, John suddenly found himself standing very, very still. Not because he hadn't expected her to look tired or run-down or whatever, no, those things were obvious from a mile off- he stopped because it wasn't fair that somebody that beautiful would have to be these things. This seemed just another proof that the Universe had everything against human beings in general.

Getting a hold on himself and switching into doctor mode, John moved slowly forward so as not to frighten her further, and crouched down to her eye level. Gently peeling her fingers from her arm, his steady hands sought out her pulse, all the while smiling faintly and reassuring her that everything was fine.

His kind words were stopped in their tracks moments later. His eyes fixed to the skin at the root of her thumb, the crease in the tiny folds that extended along the edges of the palm. Three small scars, one fiercely inflamed, punctured the smoothness. The girl's problem became suddenly clear to the doctor, whose gaze had not shifted from those dots in the disappointment at finding them.

"How long have you been going cold turkey?"

John spun around, having forgotten that he had been waiting for Sherlock. The detective stood over them, peering with a creased brow at the girl.

"Almost two days… I think."

John placed her hand on her knee and drew himself up to stand by his friend. "She's not good Sherlock. She needs treatment; her heart can't handle this. Pulse has gone mad. We have to bring her to a hospital."

"The hospital, John? Not a chance."

The shorter man indignantly pulling him aside. "I am a doctor, Sherlock. I've seen this plenty of times before and I'm telling you, if we don't get her to a hospital, we're putting her life at risk!"

Sherlock looked sincerely unimpressed. "You may have seen it before, but tell me John, who of us has more experience in the matter of drug withdrawal?" John searched his face and offered no answer.

"We're bringing her to Baker Street," Sherlock stated. John turned to look at the ground. The other walked back to his new charge and kneeled in front of her, hand on her shoulder. John forced himself away from the gum-infested pavement to watch the exchange with confusion.

"I don't think you should stay here in this state. John and I can help you if you come with us. I think I've got something at home that will help ease the symptoms. You'll be fine." He placed a hand on her back and held her arm with the other to keep her from tumbling downwards as she tried to stand.

John smiled slightly into his frown. He had witnessed something rare, and he knew it. Sherlock, being kind?

He was a medically proven sociopath, something he pointed out only too often, but in that moment John found himself doubting that. Unlike when he would act overly friendly to Molly simply to get access to some hard-to-come-by chemical, the look on Sherlock's face was an honest one, showing that he really did care. With a gulp John realised that the only other person to have the honour of receiving such a warm, human expression, was him. It wasn't a welcome thought, but the doctor found himself smiling sadly anyway as Sherlock helped the girl into a cab.

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**Hey guys, it's been a while. I would really appreciate some reviews for this chapter, I'm not overly happy with it. The reviews for the last chapters have been lovely, so thanks for the support, but drug use and such is kind of alien territory. I would be delighted if someone with more extensive knowledge could tell me if what I'm doing is right, I don't want to get something this delicate wrong. This little arc will extend to next chapter too, so please please please give me feedback in case I completely screw up. I'm doing all the research I can on the topic, but a reader's opinion is most definitely more worthwhile. Thank you and good afternoon. **


	6. Cuts on His Cheekbones

The remainder of that day passed agonisingly slowly. No sounds interrupted John's sorry mood save Sherlock's fingers on computer keys, and the violent coughs and gagging from whenever Isobel threw up. (They had fished for her name during the cab ride.) Sherlock, continuing with his uncharacteristic sympathy, had sacrificed an experiment on her behalf, which impressed the doctor to no end, although he found it a little bit creepy. Sherlock had never been so apathetic about tampering with his chemical supplies for any reason other than experiments, or God forbid, his danger nights. To even touch the sacred supply was to know the true meaning of bitterness. Like messing up the sock index. Except maybe a little more extreme.

At present Sherlock was busying himself with something on John's laptop. Isobel was practically clinging to him, which brought twitches across the detective's shoulders now and again. At one stage he even stopped typing and took a deep breath, attempting to quell his irritation. The deepened quiet in the apartment drew John's attention- Sherlock's typing had halted too abruptly. John couldn't see his friend from where he stood at the kitchen sink, washing out a basin, but his controlled breath plucked him from the room to assess Sherlock's situation.

"Isobel, you're making Sherlock uncomfortable." She glared at him, and tightened her grip on the detective's sleeve. He immediately pulled away, but she latched on stronger and threw him a concerned pout.

"Excuse me, but I don't take kindly to being man-handled."

"But..." she faltered. "I... I need... You're the only one who can... Give me what I... What I need..." John took a step forward. "You've had all that's safe, any more and it'll just make it worse. You need sleep, that's what's what. Come on."

His reaching hand was swiped unforgivably away, accompanied by a pained whimper from the back of her throat.

"Isobel..." Sherlock growled.

She buried her face in his shirt and reached for his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I just need it... Just GIVE IT TO ME!" Within seconds he was throwing her off, four red scratch marks tingling with blood on his left cheek. John's eyes were fixed on them momentarily before he turned to the girl and barrelled into her, picking her up by the waist unceremoniously. She thrashed wildly in his arms, but he paid no heed, and wrenched her up the stairs to his room, wherein she was locked until she stopped threatening them through the door.

oOoOoOo

Her shouting had stopped for about an hour before John dug out the first aid kit and tended to the cuts on Sherlock's face. The living room was oddly quiet again, with the curtains drawn for no apparent reason, and Sherlock seated with his hands steeped below his chin in thought. John paused with a wet cloth in hand to inspect his patient's battle wounds.

_Right on those perfect cheekbones. _

_**Wait what? Shut up.**_

Sherlock caught his gaze. "John?"

The doctor crouched down and shook his head slightly in exasperation. "You're bloody ruined, you idiot."

"It's fine. You needn't bother."

The older man glared at him without any true malice, just as though he was scolding a child. "Do you want these to get infected?"

"... No.

"Didn't think so. Now grit your teeth, this is gonna sting."

Sherlock watched his flatmate intently, cataloging that moment in the John Room of his mind palace. It was rare nowadays for the two of them to really have a moment without an underlying feeling of numbness or even bitterness, but this here was like old times. As if he had never pretended to be dead and John still thought the light shone out of Sherlock's arse. Like it was still simply "Holmes and Watson, Team Deduction, out to solve crimes and annoy people."

With an internal sigh, Sherlock scrolled through their most recent interactions. John being unbearably distant. John flitting between moods. John reluctant to help with cases.

And yet here they were. His blogger was concerned about him. He apparently still cared. Sherlock found himself smiling gently at his friend, and filed the moment in a special place on top of the John Room mantelpiece. The doctor paused at the buckling of his work-space, and looked brightly at the genius.

"You OK?"

"Quite, yes." His eyes flickered to his feet, and the smile dimmed.

_Stupid._

John licked his lips, cleared his throat, and got back to cleaning the cuts.

oOoOoOo

Isobel was curled in blankets when Sherlock entered the room. Her sleep was uneasy; she shuddered and muttered now and again. A particularly loud creaking footfall of Sherlock's stole her from unconsciousness. He stood by the window, watching her turn slowly to face him.

"Booster?" He held a syringe to the watery light leaking through the glass. Isobel's eyes widened with anticipation. "Really? After my um, freak out earlier?"

Sherlock moved and sat beside her on the bed, and took hold of her arm, turning the inside towards himself. "I clearly hadn't given you a large enough dose. These things are always relative." He drove the needle through her skin without much thought of being gentle, but she hardly seemed to notice.

"Thanks for this."

Sherlock didn't respond. He simply finished, stood and began walking to the door.

"And Sherlock- I'm sorry for scratching you. I didn't mean to, I swear. This whole situation just, it drives me insane."

Sherlock turned around to regard her sorrowful expression. "Don't worry. I've got John to patch up such injuries. Now get some more sleep. I'll convince our resident doctor to bring you up some fresh water." He left her to herself and went to his own room, where he began searching for something under his bed.

oOoOoOo

John had just put back the first aid case properly when Sherlock came bounding into the kitchen. "Bring Isobel some water. I'm going out. This case with the candle wax in the sewers won't solve itself." John looked him over. He was wearing those horrible tracksuit bottoms again.

"I thought you'd forgotten about that."

"Don't be absurd." He sounded only mildly insulted. "You're the one who forgot."

"I'm not your secretary, Sherlock. It's not my job to- is that the scimitar?" He pointed dumbfounded at the weapon tucked into the detective's belt. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"...Yes."

John grinned happily at him. "So I needn't have bought you that harpoon then. Shame."

The genius pursed his lips but couldn't bring himself to give any kind of retort, as John's chuckling was so seldom heard these days that he didn't want to interrupt. He waited for his friend to go quiet before advising, "Don't wait up. I may be some time."

He left the apartment swiftly, only just hearing John's farewell.

"Don't get killed!"

* * *

**CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?! *breaks shit***

**So yeah this chapter was a total pain in the ass to write. The feedback on the last chapter indicated that y'all were cool with what I was doing with our newest character, so thanks for that. Just to be sure, I got my friend to beta my idea for her behavior (she doesn't actually read this- not a Sherlock fan, but a very good writer) and she gave it the all clear, so I hope you're alright with it too.  
**

**I also think at this point that I should say- I don't have anyone Brit-picking this. I'm literally just hoping for the best. **

**Last thing- WHAT THE HELL FORMATTING. LINE BREAK. SERIOUSLY. It simply refuses to work, and it's been bugging me since I started this fic. Hence why I've started with that annoying oOoOoOo thing.**


	7. Coming Home to Nightmares

John floated around 221B, having nearly flung a fresh jug of water in to Isobel. She was wordless while he fetched his pyjamas a while later, afraid he might erupt at the slightest muttering. However, he had calmed somewhat by then, something Isobel was thankful for. That of course didn't mean he wasn't still angry with her, only that he had a decidedly better attitude towards her. That must be Sherlock's doing, she reasoned. He wasn't so pissed off either... Maybe that's the effect they have on each other.

John shut the door behind him with determination and strode into the main area. Where was he to sleep now? The couch looked utterly unwelcoming, as the past two days were catching up with him and causing aches in the most irritating places. Leg, back, neck, left wrist, all hurt. He considered a pillow mound on the floor.

_Em, no. I haven't hoovered in a week. Another task, bloody hell._

He sighed and twisted around to view the apartment fully, considering his options.

Sherlock fell through the door at 4 o'clock in the morning. The thump wasn't all that loud, but his string of profanities would have made Mrs Hudson faint had she not taken to wearing earplugs at night.

Sherlock certainly wasn't one for using foul language, but he had had a frankly awful night. The worst of it hadn't been getting his lower half plastered with human excrement, but it had certainly worsened the experience. And now he was face down on the carpet, exhausted, irritable, in need of a shower and covered in somebody else's shit.

He was entitled to a bit of cursing, yeah.

Eventually, after wallowing in self-pity for a bit, he lugged himself upstairs on all fours. It was slow and squelchy work, but he eventually got in and started peeling out of his wet clothes. The shower beckoned welcomingly.

He basked in its warmth for almost half an hour. Most of that time was spent standing motionless in the stream, breathing in vapor and begging his mind to shut up with pointless thoughts. Like that would ever happen. After such an adrenaline rush not an hour ago, his mind simply would not quieten down. Images of blood, the smell of rotting flesh, the splash of squalling rain and the tease of _"I'm going to find him. He'll never know how you died. Poor, sweet John. How he'll scream."_

But it was over. It was done. Everything was... Fine.

He stepped out before his mind completely ran away with itself. He wrapped a towel around his waist and trudged, still dripping wet, into his bedroom.

It took him no less than two seconds to realize that something wasn't right. The room was warmer than usual. The curtains shut. The plug beside the chest of drawers was buzzing slightly, with a phone charger plugged in. And ah yes of course, there was John asleep in his bed.

_How dare he invade my covers! What on Earth is the meaning of this?!_

Only then did the detective remember that John's own room was occupied. He found himself shuffling on the spot for a moment, ashamed at the blip in his logic. Shock. Shock had caused the blip. John was asleep in his bed. Sherlock was wearing nothing but a towel. In the depths of Sherlock's humanity, he knew that something... _Primitive_ could have sprung to mind. It almost had, and he knew something was itching to come to the fore, and even without being sure exactly why he should feel uncomfortable, he was terrified. There was something there and he simply could not crack it.

In a desperate attempt at ignoring himself, Sherlock quietly picked up his pyjamas from the floor by the other side of the bed. He was about to sneak out after pulling on his trousers when John murmured something into Sherlock's pillow. The detective froze. John shuddered slightly.

Overcome with curiosity, Sherlock leaned over his friend just the tiniest bit. He noticed the doctor's left hand, palm facing the ceiling, starting to shake. He whimpered pathetically, and soon enough he was turning in the bed covers, beads of sweat trailing down his neck.

Sherlock made to wake him up but found there was no need.

"SHERLOCK!"

John shot up bolt upright, eyes full of terror and breath evasive. The younger man backed away quickly, just so far as not to scare his blogger further.

"John?"

His face fell into his hands and his chest heaved. He said nothing, but tilted his gaze out through his fingers to look at his flatmate after a while. Sherlock slowly sat down beside him, pooling the covers back around his friend in as much a comforting gesture as he could handle.

"It's alright John. There's no need to worry, I'm right here."

"Jesus Christ..." John exhaled deeply, fighting to maintain his composure. "Jesus, Sherlock, I- Don't ever..."

Sherlock extended his hand as proof.

"I'm here now. The dream is done. We're all real here."

John timidly entwined his fingers with those outstretched, and brought his forehead to meet them with a sigh. He sat panting quietly, relishing Sherlock's presence and the fact that he was alive, warm, breathing, _there_.

"How long has this been going on, John?" Sherlock asked carefully. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know. How oblivious had he been to all this?

"Two years. Maybe more."

"After I left then."

"... Yes."

Sherlock wriggled his fingers out of John's grip and bowed his head, turning away from the questioning hand on his shoulder.

"This is my fault."

John dropped his hand in disappointment. No matter how awful his nightmares were, he would never want to shift the blame on somebody else, least not Sherlock. John had decided long ago that Cold Emotionless Sherlock was less worrying than Ashamed Self-Loathing Sherlock.

"Tell me a story. Come on." He nudged his friend's leg. "Tell me about this case of yours. I want to know."

The detective frowned at the floor.

"Please, Sherlock."

* * *

**OH GOD I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG **

**But here I am. I'm alive, hi. I mentioned before about exams, right? Well, exams. I had a German oral last Wednesday and I have my Irish one this Thursday. Then in about a week and a half from today I have a portfolio assessment and an interview for college.**

**Yaaaay. **

**So I dunno when the next chapter will be up, and seeing as it is gonna be the BIGGEST pain in my hole to write, it'll probably take quite a while. So please have patience with it. In the mean time, I put up the first part of a short story I wrote in my English mock exam (yeah I'm a bad ass bitch who does shit like that and gets away with it) and I've edited it for Johnlock fans to read. I'm thinking of lengthening it because as somebody pointed out kindly, the idea was pretty awesome. It's called "Forgotten the Real Thing." Please have a read and give us a review there!  
**

**Thank you and goodnight. **


	8. Candle Wax and Electricity

**Finally we're going to find out about this sewer stuff. One thing: in my plan for this story, I hadn't intended for this case to be important, and I was wasn't going to write it at all. But then I realised that people might actually be curious about it, so I spent a month or so coming up with the details and the whole significance of it for the story line. It'll become more obvious in the next chapter.**

**Very little actual narration here, sorry. We'll get back to it after this, I promise.**

**Also to anyone living in England, I'm sorry if my research was faulty here. As I may have mentioned before, I am in no way familiar with any of the areas I am talking about. Please don't be disappointed, I tried my best. **

**Anyhoo, please r&r as you have been doing, every one is deeply appreciated. YOU HAVE ALL OF MY LOVE.**

**ONE MORE THING I'm gonna give the chapters names now. Thought you might like to know.**

* * *

Sherlock put his t-shirt on before leaving his room to make tea for the two of them- a rare occurrence. John sat for a moment in thought before crawling from the bed to follow him. He watched the detective closely, noticing in this light several colouring bruises across his face and down his arms. His neck was red just below his Adam's apple, evidence of a deadly encounter. John didn't ask. He was still jittery after the nightmare, and didn't need the fear of knowing his friend had cheated death again that very night.

There was silence between them before they sat down opposite one another, teacups cradled in still and shuddering hands.

"How much have I told you about it already?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to waste time on pointless repetition.

"Just that a body was found under a bridge with candle wax all over his hands and arms."

"Not much then. Very well, I might as well start from the beginning. It was an odd one, I'll admit. The odd ones, are, however, the most obvious ones. Although I'm sure you've realised that by now." He gently put down his cup and crossed his legs to match John's position.

"The victim's name was Stephen Richards, 27 years old. A council builder, electrician. Wife, two children, elderly mother, younger brother. Found stabbed to death under the Hammersmith flyover. Half pulled into an opening to the sewage systems. Stabbed multiple times in the stomach, once in the back. As you said, candle wax all over his lower arms."

Sherlock stopped to take a breath, allowing John time to speak. "Hammersmith flyover? Work stopped on that a couple of years ago, back in summer, what was it, 2012. And if he was an electrician, that just doesn't make sense."

"Oh very good John, yes. You're getting the hang of this." He smiled fondly at his friend, who gave a bewildered smile back, waiting for it- "Took you long enough." There it was.

"Anyway, yes that was odd, but right now it isn't important, what IS important is what was down in that area of the sewers. Lestrade phoned me a week ago about it, as you know; the network had been explored for extra evidence and of course they came across another five bodies, surrounded by the same candles that had stained Stephen Richards' sleeves. They were identified as his family members, Grace Heston his wife, Julia and Mark his children, Patricia his mother, and Matthew his brother. They had been killed with a potent dose of snake venom- Black Mamba venom to be precise, but anyway, it had killed them within twenty minutes. The police figured out that much, and then came running to me for help because they're just so _utterly_ incompetent at their owns jobs."

"Right." John nodded, assuming Sherlock's next comment. "So then you left the case for an entire week because you thought it was boring."

"Of course it was boring John, it was obvious."

"It wasn't obvious to me," John retorted. "It still isn't."

Sherlock's appreciation of the developments in his friend's intellect disappeared instantly, and he shook his head in disappointment before sipping at his tea.

"Well. It took some effort to pinpoint exactly who committed the crime- lots of cross-referencing and trawling through files and other tedious things, but the pieces came together beautifully and in the exact manner I predicted." Sherlock took a moment to bask in his own utter genius, and continued. "Firstly I considered the employment of venom. Not many people have access to such toxic substances, save those studying or working in laboratories. That ruled out a great number of suspects, but still left quite a gaping hole in our knowledge, as the location is too close to a nodal point to single out a single university or scientific research centre. Next I considered the sizes of the bodies and their placements- The five bodies in the sewers were dragged through quite a few tunnels to reach the dumping ground, and all of them would have been fairly light. Richards, now, he was an overweight man, about 5'9"- far more of a challenge but still a doable job by a male. But our killer hadn't managed to drag him under, suggesting a female physique, or else a weak male. Another deduction in suspects. Now, the candle wax. That was where things took a strange turn." His fingers peaked under his chin. "At first I thought it could have been a cult ritual, candlelight and all that, but no, the five bodies had no identical injuries, weren't positioned in any particular way, and well, it was a sewer. Another clue- there was a stock of them. Boxes of plain candles. Why would you need so many, unless you planned to spend a lot of time down there without the use of a flashlight? But who would rather use candles over flashlights?"

"Somebody who gets headaches from florescent light?" John added hopefully. Sherlock only frowned at him.

"Of course not! You can get those torches that have those bulbs that give off natural light anyway. For goodness' sake John. It was clearly somebody who has an absolute hatred for electricity."

"You have got to be joking." The was a long pause as the doctor tried to see the logic in Sherlock's statement. "Sherlock... This is the twenty-first century. England. How could anyone even- I mean that just sounds stupid."

The detective grinned slyly.

"Old people."

"Sorry?"

"The elderly, John!" He just about jumped in his chair. "So afraid of change, always looking back at what was and never accepting that the world has left them behind!"

"_Sherlock_!"

"What? It's the truth. There are often old people who refuse to accept the changes in modern life. A country dweller, living much of the first half of life without wiring and piping and the luxuries we have now."

"This is England though! We have had electricity for over a hundred years!"

"And yet it is a fact that people such as the one I am describing exist. Now shut up and let me finish."

John's eyes shot to heaven but he stayed quiet and listened again. Sherlock was becoming more engrossed in his explanation and seemed to have forgotten their exchange of ten minutes ago. Good.

"So, an old person with an aversion to electricity. A female college professor, student or researcher. The two don't seem to fit together all that well until you do some digging. I instructed Lestrade to search through council files and their electricity bills, keeping an eye out for any old ones who didn't pay. In addition the Yard went searching for members of college fencing teams, specifically women's' teams."

"Fencing?"

"Her aim was almost perfect for the first three blows. The blade that stabbed Richards was a light, thin type quite like a rapier. So, fencing. Simple."

"And... Did those two things actual connect?" John was looking at him with a cocked brow, completely lost.

"Naturally. Two of the people the Yard found were related. Grandmother and granddaughter. The younger rents a house from Grace Heston. Delia Fitzgerald. Studying zoology, and happens to keep homing pigeons."

"Couldn't send messages to her grandmother in any other way..."

"Yes, yes! Anyway, have you figured out the motive yet?" He eagerly gripped the armrests. John took a moment to think.

"He was an electrician."

"_Yes_, and?"

"And?"

"Double motive, John."

The doctor took another sip of tea as their conversation repeated in his head. "They were threatening to evict the granddaughter because of the pigeons?"

Sherlock just about screamed with delight.

"YES, well _done_ John, ah now I remember why I can stand living with you, you aren't nearly as stupid as you make out to be!"

John sucked at his teeth.

"Oh shut up, you know what I mean."

"Yeah." The doctor put down his cup and shuffled forwards in his chair, entwining his fingers. Sherlock twitched under his scrutiny.

"And are you going to tell me how you got so badly beaten up?"

If Sherlock had seemed uncomfortable before, it was nothing in comparison to this. He drew in a sharp breath, cheeks tingeing scarlet.

"I... Had a brief scuffle with the younger one. I'm fine now, obviously." John continued to gaze at him sternly, with some disappointment added in for good measure.


	9. Smell of Cigarettes, A Strike of Metal

Eventually, John stood up with a disgruntled huff with the intention of nabbing some biscuits. Although, it was more likely an avoidance strategy, because the way he bit his lip in contemplation before jolting upright told the story of his feelings clear as day.

_Well, so sorry to disappoint, John, but this is one thing you are never going to find out about. From these lips anyway._

Sherlock regarded his flatmate's curving back as the doctor dug through a cupboard. As he straightened up, he placed the digestives gently on the counter top, and pinching the smooth edge of the pack so that the noise of crinkling plastic rang through the kitchen like brittle teeth on sugar cubes. The counter supported his weight through his straightened arms, and he hung his head in silence.

"John, you're thinking too loudly."

"Sorry." He shook himself down and shut the press, before taking the biscuits into the next room. "I just realised how ridiculous it is for me to constantly worry about the smartest idiot in existence. By all rights, you should be able to take care of yourself. And yet here we are." He sank back into sitting and ripped the pack open after three tries with his spasming hand. The detective recorded the movements as if he were filming a documentary in his head.

"Here we are indeed. After you woke yourself up from a horrible nightmare which you neglected to tell me about until tonight, and I attempted to calm you with details of my latest case and tea. _Here we are_."

John nibbled on the broken pieces at the top and waved off the comment. "Not the same thing."

"No? Then why have I not resigned myself to sleep yet?"

John licked crumbs from his lips and avoided the question.

"Yeah about that, I'll just uh... Grab a pillow and sleep on the couch tonight." He sighed looking over at his new arrangement and was suddenly awash with back pains and leg pains, and I-don't-know-where-that-pain-even-is pains.

"Don't be stupid John, you've probably smelled up my sheets already."

John guffawed. "Like that's even possible, the room absolutely stinks of cigarettes." He gave his friend a look- _If you think I didn't know, then you are a stupid prat._

John ended up beneath warm covers, with the smell of tobacco in his nostrils, thanking the skies for the man now resting on leather in the living room.

**Two hours earlier**

Sherlock gripped the note tightly; aware of the grainy quality to the paper and the friction it caused in this palm. He tried desperately not to allow the pungent stench of human filth overload his thoughts. He felt his shoes slip slightly on the damp he trod over- a burst pipe somewhere, making the smell worse.

He was on edge. He always was when he closed in on a killer, and it had been a while since such an interesting murderer had popped up. The edge was tempting, so very exciting and dangerous and thrilling that the detective had half a mind to throw caution to the wind and sprint down the tunnels and leap headfirst into the view of those he pursued. But Sherlock had been overconfident before, and that had put a bullet in Moriarty's head. He reasoned John might not be happy with him if he died again, so he pushed the urge to the corner of his thoughts.

The torch he held dimmed. Sherlock hissed as he recollected its need for new batteries. John had left them in clear view on his desk only the other day, but then he had ignored the gesture in favour of watching the reaction between chalk and fox urine. That experiment hadn't even given him good results. The stupid urine sample had ripened too long. _Stupid internet and stupid suppliers with their stupid out-of-date urine._

_Not the time for this, I'm chasing killers, and my torch is going out. Stop wandering off._

He walked on for another three minutes before he heard a soft scuffling further ahead and a little to the left.

_Probably just a rat._

The scuffling evolved into whispers and the tinkle of thin glass on the floor.

_Not a rat then._

A match was struck and applied to a larger wick, throwing lacy yellow down to where Sherlock quickly crouched and switched off his light. Footsteps rang out in front, coming closer with every breath. As quietly as humanly possible, Sherlock drew his sword.

"I know you're there, Sherlock Holmes."

Cover blown, he gracefully swept back to his full height and gripped the scimitar more confidently.

"Is this encounter going to continue being so cliched, because if you insist on being this boring then I'm just going to leave."

A thinner sword glanced off his own in a sickening screech. Two weapons so different were really going to make things difficult, but this woman- Delia Fitzgerald, presumably- seemed unperturbed and thrust forward like the sting of a wasp. Sherlock grinned at the challenge.

* * *

**I'm not gonna say sorry for the wait on this chapter, because I just started my massive exams this morning and ain't nobody got time fo' dat. **

**Another reason: I REWROTE THIS BASTARD THREE TIMES.**

**THREE.**

**TIMES.**

**So yeah, you're not allowed to be annoyed. XD **

**Anyhoo, please review or whatever, because it's nice when you write something you think is kinda shitty and people tell you they like it... **

**You may have noticed I'm not in the best of moods. **

_**Exams. ***_**shakes fist at the sky***


	10. A Threat with Poison

Sherlock really should have realised that he was completely outmatched. Delia Fitzgerald was a professional and he was, well... Not.

With a forceful backhand and a well-placed kick to his wrist, the scimitar flew from his grip and clattered a few feet away. The opposing blade met the skin just below his Adam's apple, and for a long moment, neither moved nor dared to breathe. The battle silently continued in the connected gaze they shared, and before she even spoke, Sherlock had a spark of realisation.

'Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A smart boy like you should understand. So go on. Tell me how I managed it." The sharp edge pressed harder, but not enough to break the surface. Sherlock answered coolly.

"You lured me down here with that note at the aviary in much the same way as you had been threatening Stephen Richards. 'Meet me here or we poison your wife,' that kind of thing. He wouldn't comply at first because he thought it was a prank- the wife was at work, the kids in school, all completely untouchable. Until it got late into the night and he was alone in the house." He closed his eyes as if he were bored. "I'm disappointed to be honest, thought it might be a bit deeper. More elaborately planned."

The sword was just starting to draw blood, drop by precious drop. Delia smiled cruelly.

"It's a pity, really. That you don't get to watch my next game." She bowed her head slightly and pouted condescendingly. "Tell me, how's Dear John Watson doing nowadays?"

The detective's expression fell quite obviously at the mention of his friend. He moved unconsciously backwards and the madwoman snarled. "We can't leave it at just killing you. That would be way too fucking lazy."

With that she kicked him down, where he fell into a puddle of leaking sewage. Disgust distracted him momentarily before there was another blow to his stomach, then thigh. He was a crumpled mess of pain while the swordsman reached for a vial and needle from a pouch at her hip. She breathed steadily as she prepared them.

"I'm going to find him. He'll never know how you died. Poor, sweet John. How he'll **scream**."

An inhuman snarl rumbled from deep in Sherlock's throat, and with a burst of adrenaline befitting an athlete, he found the strength to roll out of range of any further blows. The scimitar was in his hands again in a matter of seconds, and he righted himself into a fighting stance as best he could with quickly forming bruises.

"Threatening to kill John is by far the most dangerous risk you've taken tonight."

She looked him up and down with disgust and pity.

"Give over. You're a fucking mess! You're no threat to me like this. Damn disappointing."

She made to step closer but found the tip of Sherlock's sword brandished just centimetres from her nose.

"I faked my own death to protect him. Don't think I wouldn't go further."

The pained expression Fitzgerald wore doubled into pure sickened horror. Her rapier swung upwards slightly.

"Leave your faggotty shit outside, Holmes. I already know you'd do some serious shit to save your boyfriend. That's why seeing you struggle is _so much more fun_."

The fight broke out again, a little slower than last time and twice as exhausting with his injuries, but this time he had to take the needle into account as well as a sword. The two raged at each other, grazing skin and throwing kicks around, but never managing to cut deep enough to draw much blood.

Sherlock was pinned to the tiled walls with only the scimitar between him and his opponent when distant shouts echoed down the tunnel. With a grunted effort, Sherlock found the breath to yell for attention.

"Lestrade! I'm here, hurry up!"

The woman immediately showed her frustration by pressing all her strength into breaking his barrier, but the attempt was sloppy and the blades slid in opposite directions, making her stumble sideways.

A single police officer came upon them at first, and his eyes widened in terror when Fitzgerald fixed herself and her stance. Her eyes were blazing at the realisation that she had been caught, and like a caged lioness, she bit. The junior officer slumped to the ground and his hands searched himself, finding only red, and lots of it. Unconsciousness hit him within seconds.

That gave Sherlock a window, and just as she turned back to him with fire in her glare, he grabbed the needle out of her hand and plunged it into her hip. It hung limply from her side as she shuffled backwards, worry plastered to her face.

"Sherlock? Oh Jesus Christ, Donovan, get an ambulance!" Lestrade dropped to his comrade's side the moment he spotted the scene and pulled another policeman down with him to help check out the situation. His gaze found Sherlock's and swept over his form to take in any damage.

"You look like shit."

Sherlock only nodded, but waved in the direction of the killer. Lestrade stood up with speed and joined Sherlock's side, surprise written all over his face as he pieced together what had happened only moments ago. Fitzgerald shuddered and bent over to the side, spilling the contents of her stomach onto a section of piping.

"Donovan, we'll need _another_ ambulance!"

oOoOoOoOo

"It was self-defence, nobody's even gonna file it. No worries mate."

Blue and red lights blurred their vision when they exited the sewage system and finished up. Lestrade and Sherlock stood to the side as the body of Delia Fitzgerald and the Met officer- Peter Roche- were loaded into ambulances to be taken to St Bart's morgue. They spoke little for some minutes, until the DI offered him a cigarette. Sherlock grimly shook his head. "John would kill me."

He was stared at for a few seconds before Lestrade focussed on finding his lighter. The taller man sighed.

"She threatened to kill him too. John, I mean."

"I figured she would have." He was stared at again. "Go home, Sherlock. You've seen hell tonight, go on. No paperwork tonight or in the morning."

_Go home and be with him, you bloody idiot._

"And tell John... I said hi."

Sherlock got into the back of a police car and was escorted back to Baker Street, hoping more than anything that he would fall asleep once he got home, and forget all this madness. John Watson made it difficult.

* * *

**Lestrade! _He knows._**

**Anyway I want to sincerely apologise for the wait. I was in procrastination station for feckin' ages. It sucked. Also this arch was annoying the hell out of me. Now everybody join in with me and in Frodo's voice, sigh with joy that "It's _done!_" We'll be moving back to the story's namesake. Finally. **

**BTW I have no experience whatsoever with sword-fighting of any kind, so if it seems weird, then hey. I probably should have researched more. **

**Reviews are always appreciated, and if there's constructive crit in there I will consider everything you say. Love you all. **


	11. A Meeting in the Morgue

**Three Months Later**

For once it wasn't gunshots or the obnoxious playing of a violin that woke John at five in the morning. It was the landline phone ringing, held about thirty centimetres from his head. Sherlock watched blankly as his friend groaned and flailed his arms in misery, tossing the blanket over himself further in the process.

"John. Answer the phone."

"Piss _off_ Sherlock I'm _asleep_."

The phone continued its shrill assault, and the detective huffed out his irritation.

"But you're obviously awake. You just answered me in a perfectly awake manner. The _phone_, John!"

The blankets were ripped away and the doctor snatched the device from his friend to stop the horrific noise.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before the timid voice of Molly Hooper stuttered in shock.

"_I'm sorry, should I just call back later_?"

John's head sank further into his pillows. "No, sorry, Sherlock's just being a prick."

A grunt of indignation was heard from above.

"_Oh. Well, could you ask him to come over to Bart's? There's a body here that he might want to see,_ _you know, if he needs some parts_..."

"Molly Hooper, I cannot believe you are willingly assisting this menace in ruining my kitchen."

Sherlock mouthed an annoyed _my kitchen?_ and crossed his arms, staring maliciously at John.

"_Heh, um, he threatened that if I didn't give him parts he'd steal my cat, so_..."

John held the phone away from his ear to glare at his flatmate without interruption. "Seriously?"

Sherlock shrugged at him.

oOoOoOoOo

"Is that... God, Sherlock it's-"

"I know. Your notes, if you would, Molly."

Glancing between both men, the pathologist handed Sherlock her clipboard. His eyes skimmed her writing before he thrust it into John's hands to double check the medical side of things. He gripped the sides of the slab and leered at the body before him. His expression was static, but John saw the subtle signs of distress- whitening knuckles from such a strong grip on the table, left foot tapping against the white tiles, and his tightened posture.

John thumbed across the notes and took in every word with hardly suppressed disappointment. "She was discharged from rehab early. The hell? Does Lestrade know about this?"

"He texted me this morning to tell me a woman was shot in the head and he might need me to come in. Then he texted again saying they had everything under control. I didn't bother inquiring further, I was in the middle of sorting out hair samples. I assume he was talking about this."

The doctor rubbed at his eyes before searching his pocket for his mobile.

"I'm ringing the centre. There's something deeper than a simple shooting going on here, I can feel it."

"Hmm."

Before dialling the number, John looked up at his friend expectantly.

"Nothing?"

"Sorry?"

"No deductions to share before I ring these people up? I don't want to waste credit."

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and he rolled on the balls of his feet.

"She was after going shopping. She had a friend coming over. She hadn't touched any kind of drug apart from painkillers in the last week or so."

Molly leaned closer in fascination but wasn't graced with any further induction.

"That's it. All I can get. Which answers another question- yes, you should ring the rehab centre, John. This wasn't a mindless killing. Somebody knew I would get involved and cleaned up, but they must have been clever enough to know what details were important... Excellent..."

"Excellent?" John scoffed in disgust. "It's _Isobel_, Sherlock. How is her death _excellent_?"

The detective's face flashed with guilt for a split second before regaining its neutrality. He made a show of observing Isobel's fingernails closely and opened his mouth to retort, but shut it tight after some consideration. John shook his head and sucked in a deep breath.

"Just... Please shut up while I talk to the receptionist. Actually, never mind, I'll just go outside." He tossed his phone between his hands and left without a look at the others.

Molly watched his retreating back until the door swung closed after him. Cautiously her attention returned to Sherlock, who was prodding the dead woman's collarbone.

"Who is she to you? You and John both seem pretty... Tense."

It took a whole forty seconds for the detective to answer in an uninterested voice.

"She stayed in Baker Street with us for a couple of days a few months ago, before we brought her to get help. I don't understand why John is upset; he didn't like her all that much."

"Did you?"

Sherlock gave her a shadowed look.

"No."

"But...?"

The detective made a show of unclenching Isobel's jaws and didn't answer straight away. Molly shuffled on the spot, unsure of whether or not she was prying into dangerous territory.

_Ah screw this. I deserve some level of trust at this stage!_

"Look, you don't have to tell me, but I'd appreciate some-"

"She was an addict, I sympathised. End of story."

"But it isn't, is it?" Molly rounded on him. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. This act you're giving off, caring about people, I know it's for _his_ benefit." She waved a hand at the door. "I can see it in your face."

Sherlock had frozen in place; his brain rattling with the pressure of admittance or denial of everything Molly said. _Damn sentiment is always so obvious to everyone else! It's an absolute nuisance._

"Molly, I don't think-"

The door swung open dramatically to a flustered John Watson.

"They discharged her on the twenty fifth. Said a Simon Miller came and signed her out, and they actually _let_ him. She was showing good progress or some rubbish. She was barely in there two months!"

Sherlock flashed a warning eye at Molly before sweeping out of the morgue, leaving his friend to give a rushed apology and a thank you. The pathologist hardly suppressed a worried giggle as the door shut behind them.

* * *

**I really need to start uploading faster. Sorry. **

**This chapter was Beta'd by FlameTempest (I am unsure of whether or not that is her username but it's apparently something along those lines.)**

**Yeah, I lied about going back to the namesake. _Next_ chapter...Hopefully. Oh hey, did you notice how I killed off my own character? I don't like having OCs. And oh, is that a major plot I see in the distance? IT'S COMING UP FAST OH SHI-**


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